


potential energy

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Late at Night, M/M, Sleepy Harold Finch, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24566821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: Even the most stubborn of technomancers needs someone to push them to get some sleep every now and then. But with all the trust that's been building up between John and Harold lately, it's not as hard as John expected to get Harold to comply.He just wasn't expecting to be handed Harold's heart at the same time.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79
Collections: Exchange of Interest 2020





	potential energy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michaelssw0rd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/gifts).



> It's POI, but a little more magical.

Another day spent saving another person's world, and John once again finds Harold drooping in his seat, the monitors in front of him dark but still on. It's not surprising. Whenever they have to lean on Harold's _other_ skill set along with that big brain of his, it's a safe bet Harold will crash at his computers as soon as the case is done.

"C'mon, Finch." John gently shakes Harold's shoulder. "Even wizards need their eight hours."

Harold lets out the whiniest groan John's ever heard from him, and John stifles a laugh. God, he sounds so annoyed. It's cute. "What time is it?" Harold asks, blinking his eyes open and nudging his glasses back up his nose.

"Almost two."

"Then I'll only get four." Harold closes his eyes again. "Mr. Reese, please leave me be."

"Not gonna happen, Harold." Not after a number that took two technomantic rituals in the other realm Harold calls the "Hackerscape," some of the less magical kind of computer hacking, and a high speed chase ending in an explosion to wrap up. John himself is running on fumes, ready to fall over the second he gets home. For someone whose body's magic system goes on the fritz as often as Harold's, whose body aches as much as Harold's, a few hours in a bed seems pretty damn necessary.

But John can't actually say it like that. Instead, he goes with, "You never know—might have to slay a dragon tomorrow. Today. Don't you want to be rested up for that?"

Harold's grunt seems to say, _"No, not really."_ Then, the man himself asks, "Do I seem like the dragon-slaying type, or the type to condone it?"

"Not really," John says, "But you never know what Leon's gonna get into next." He thinks about the moony eyes Shaw kept making toward the eggs and babies when they took down a smuggler a few weeks back, and adds, "Or Shaw."

"Or you?" Harold asks, and, yeah. John was looking, too. He laughs softly. Point taken. Then, more seriously, Harold adds, "Honestly, John, I'm alright. I've—" He yawns. "I've slept here countless times. I'll be fine."

On a bed that makes even John's back hurt. Unacceptable. "We can do this two ways," John says. "Either you open your eyes and call a car and head home on your own, or I pick you up and carry you out to _my_ car, and we go home to my place."

"You're not picking me up, John."

"No, probably not." But it's tempting. Even with the softness around the belly, he doubts Harold would be difficult to carry. Would probably squawk like some of his namesake birds if John tried it without permission, but it wouldn't be hard. Might even be nice, holding Harold in his arms like that. "I'm sure I can find another way to drag you out of here."

John catches himself absently stroking Harold's shoulder with his thumb, feeling the crackling warmth of lingering magic even through layers of wool and cotton. It's not a good sign—not when his own powerful is barely palpable, just the slightest hum of potential energy under his skin. And while John can't even pretend to understand all the havoc that bombing they both act like he doesn't know about wreaked on Harold's magic, he does know Harold will be drained by dawn if he doesn't get some real rest soon.

It's happened before.

"Your call, Harold."

"I can sleep in the back," Harold insists.

"And then you'll be waking up on my bed," John retorts, "'cause I'll wait 'til you fall asleep, then scoop you up and take you home. Unless you want to tell me where you live before you crash?" Harold wrinkles his nose, a grumpy, sleepy scowl that's so adorable it makes John's stomach flutter and has him biting back a laugh. Once he's got that urge under control, he says, "Come on, Harold. Bear wants to go home, too."

Bear doesn't give a damn, blinking awake only long enough to eye John curiously at the mention of his name, then dozing off again. Sometimes, John can sense the dog's emotions, but all he's getting is calm. Which means Harold will be sensing the same, if he's aware enough.

John's pretty sure that, even in the deepest sleep, some part of Harold is _always_ aware enough.

Sure enough, Harold murmurs, "Stop trying to use our dog to manipulate me," with obvious irritation. "He's content right where he is."

"But will _you_ be content if you stay right where you are?"

Harold huffs, and mutters, "Why did I hire someone so damn persistent?" under his breath, but he reaches for his mouse and shuts his computer down anyway. A few times, John's seen him try shutting down everything with a wave of a hand, sometimes successfully, sometimes not, but not tonight. Harold turns off the monitors by hand, too, and pushes away from his workstation, then takes a slow, deep breath and stands. Immediately, he sways, saying, "Whoa," as he grabs for the nearest support, barely managing to clutch John's arm.

"Here, I've got you." John catches him by the waist, steadying Harold on his feet. To his surprise, Harold doesn't protest or glare, or anything else he'd do if he were a little more awake. Instead, once John has a good grip on him, Harold lets out a small sigh and leans heavily against him, like he knows he can trust John to hold him up.

He can.

A knot of tension John didn't even notice he was toting around in his chest lets go. He breathes easier, catching the scent of Harold so close and safe and trusting, and more of his stress fades to nothing. Those two trips to the Hackerscape washed away the subtle herb fragrance of Harold's cologne, leaving behind only Harold. He smells good, clean and human and real and magical, and John wonders when part of his soul decided Harold smells like home. Or when it decided pressing a kiss to Harold's cheek sounded like a good idea.

Stifling that urge, John says, "Last chance to back out, Finch," and drapes an arm around Harold's shoulders, ready to steer him along. He feels so small in John's embrace, his body fitting perfectly beneath John's arm, the curve of his arm filling John's hand neatly. "Otherwise, I'm taking you home with me."

Harold makes a small, sleepy noise, shifting in John's hold, and says, "No, I'm quite comfortable, thank you."

John's heart does something funny in his chest, a flickering kind of painful squeeze that makes him think again of kissing Harold. Jesus. He never would've thought that, one day, they'd get to this point, that someday Harold would trust him enough to do magic with him, much less let John help him out like this.

But things have been different since that night John thought they'd both say goodbye on a cold and windy rooftop. Since the moment Harold typed in a third code on a phone, then muttered, _"Oh, dear,"_ and looked up at John with horror in his huge, blue eyes.

John had faced certain death many times, but that was the first time it came with such a sense of panic, of sheer, raw _wrongness_ along with the calm. Harold wasn't supposed to be there. Harold wasn't supposed to go down with him. _"Did it—"_

 _"I'm locked out,"_ he said, voice shaking. _"John, I..."_ Harold swallowed hard, then a sense of resolve seemed to take over, and horror turned to grim determination. He took John's hands in his, and asked, _"Do you trust me?"_

There wasn't a single bit of doubt in John's mind. _"Yes,"_ he replied.

_"Then I might have one last trick up my sleeve. I'm afraid I'm not very good at this anymore, but if you could close your eyes and amplify my power with yours..."_

With a rushed incantation and a burst of power so strong John thought was the bomb at first, Harold took them somewhere else. To a night black world that stretched endlessly around them, warm and calm and quiet, lit only by the greenish glow of fireflies.

No. Not fireflies, John found, when Harold summoned a stream of the tiny neon lights into his outstretched palms and began manipulating it in the air. It was letters, text. Computer code. All John could do was watch, struck speechless with awe, as Harold wove an intricate program from the green letters and numbers floating on the breeze.

It must have taken hours, but time didn't seem to matter much in this dimension. Harold worked until he was finished, until the green shifted into gold, and he looked up at John, his face aglow and beautiful, and said, _"I do believe I've figured it out."_

 _"And if you haven't?"_ John asked.

 _"Then..."_ Harold swallowed hard. _"Then it's been a pleasure to know you, John, and I thank you for everything that you have done for me."_

They made it, with only three seconds to spare. And John thinks now that the bigger question wasn't whether or not he trusts Harold—an obvious yes, for sure—but whether Harold trusts him. If the answer was no, they would've gone back to the way things were, with Harold relying solely on intellect instead of aided by his busted magic while John did his usual thing in pursuit of bad guys. And never in a million years would John have gotten away with touching Harold like this and taking him home.

But Harold's eyes stay closed behind his glasses, even when John says, "You're really out of it, aren't you?" and Harold's breaths stay calm and steady as John guides him to the elevator. A few brief commands and a small spell have Bear following along and pushing buttons with his nose and paws. John could do that himself, but that kind of magic's not as natural for him, and he's got something far more important to focus on right now.

It scares him, just how much he loves Harold. How much he has to lose now. How intricately his heart is wrapped around one person. He can feel it everywhere inside him, intertwined with the familiar old magic and the blood running through his veins. Harold is a part of him now, and he's not sure if that's a product of them joining their powers so often or if it would've happened even without that.

He suspects it's the latter, and it's _terrifying_.

Harold stays quiet, even after the doors close, making no move to pull away. He must be utterly exhausted, John thinks, maybe even feeling like shit. That he can get away with this, that he's allowed to touch someone so incredible, to hold someone so prickly and precious this close—it's staggering. And, despite the building of trust, it's still a little odd. Sure, they've transcended reality together a few times, but, deep down, Harold is still Harold—prickly, prideful, stubborn as hell and terrified of vulnerability. "You okay, Harold?" John asks, softly, just to be sure.

A brief, "Mm," is Harold's reply, along with a small smile that's so sweet it hits John like a punch to the gut. John forces himself to chuckle, instead of kissing Harold like he wants.

"You're really sleepy, aren't you?"

Harold nods, and, after a moment, lets out a quiet groan and says, "I'm not as young as I used to be, I'm afraid."

John can hear what goes unsaid. Not as young, yes, but also not as powerful. Some of the spells Harold does now would've taken one hell of a technomancer to pull off alone, and no one ever found any evidence that Nathan Ingram had any kind of powers besides normal brains and charisma. Didn't stop the government from trying to take out a wizard, though. Harold wasn't the only survivor whose magic got fucked up.

Nowadays, even the little spells are probably draining for him. The big ones...

John decides he'd better pretend to overlook that. "Welcome to the club," he says, and Harold huffs.

"You're still younger than me," Harold grumbles.

"In normal years, sure." But the lifespan of people in John's line of work is different. He might be one of the best at manipulating weapons and fights, might be good at healing fast, but one day, it won't matter. A bullet or blade will have his name on it, and all the skill in the world won't save him. "In CIA years? I'm ancient."

"Then it's a good thing the CIA is no longer your employer."

The elevator dings, and John asks, "You want me to let you go?" as the doors slide open.

Harold heaves a sigh, and, eyes still closed, says, "I suppose I shouldn't take advantage of your generosity when I have two...well, not perfectly _good_ legs, but they are functional."

"You're not taking advantage." John urges Harold forward again, adjusting his grasp, and steers Harold into the lobby, dodging the books scattered on the floor. "It's not any trouble." Not after everything Harold has done for him. Not when he's so in love with Harold it hurts. "And you're sleepy."

"Very sleepy," Harold agrees, and John can't help himself—he kisses the side of Harold's head, the spikes of Harold's hair so soft against his lips. He pulls back quickly, hopefully before Harold realizes what has happened, and finds Harold is smiling again, his eyes open. "Was wondering if you intended to do that."

John freezes. "Harold?"

"Perhaps we should be facing each other for the next part of this discussion," Harold says, his smile turning wry.

A cold numbness seeping through him, John lets go, but can't bring himself to pull his hands from Harold completely, even when Harold is steady. Harold turns in his grasp, wrapping his arms around John, splaying his hands high on John's back, above the ever-present handgun, while John's land on Harold's hips. John's heart threatens to break out of his chest. Harold wasn't supposed to know about this. Harold wasn't supposed to _know_.

"Subtlety is not your strong suit, John," Harold says, fond and teasing.

"Thought I was doing a good job hiding it," John says, his voice lower, rougher than usual.

Harold shakes his head, and moves a hand to cup John's cheek in his palm. "I see a lot more of you when we're in the Hackerscape than you do of me." John's eyebrows shoot up. "It's likely quite unfair, this imbalance, but I suspect it's also rather unavoidable."

"I was trained not to show anything," John says. "Even when I'm somewhere like that. You shouldn't..." _Shouldn't know, shouldn't have seen, shouldn't have been able to see_...

"But none of the rituals you performed in the CIA were the kind of intertwined magic we do, were they?" Harold says, running his thumb across John's cheek in slow, even strokes. "I've performed rituals with others a few times myself, and none of them have been like the ones we do. I suspect it's only the fractures in my magic system that keep me from revealing as much about how I feel about you as I've seen of how you feel about me. They corrupt the data a bit. But that doesn't mean the data isn't there."

"And how do you—" John's voice catches, and he swallows, the lump in his throat landing heavy and uneasy in his gut. "How do you feel? About me?"

"I feel…" Harold's smile widens slightly. "Like you are far more magical than anything else in this world." He slides his hand to the back of John's neck, beneath the open collar of John's shirt, his fingers whispering across John's skin. Magic prickles in the wake of his touch, glimmering and golden in John's mind.

John shivers, and it tightens the feeling of anticipation building in his belly. Harold's going to kiss him, he thinks, _knows_ when Harold cradles the back of his head and urges it down. Harold is going to kiss him, and he isn't going to deserve it.

"And," Harold says, "I think it's time we both stop avoiding the path we know we should be traveling down."

John doesn't hesitate to meet Harold halfway, their lips brushing soft and tentative against each other's. For the briefest, most irrational moment, John's terrified he's read this all wrong, but Harold's mouth welcomes him, Harold's hand guides his head, making it easier, Harold's eyes close.

 _Trust Harold,_ he thinks, his eyes falling shut, too, as Harold deepens the kiss. Trust Harold, and everything will come together. Including them.

Harold is a good kisser. It's not a surprise. His mouth is agile and curious, moving with ease on John's, learning him, consuming him. His lip balm is sweet on John's tongue, smooth on John's chapped lips, a gentle slide of delicious friction John can feel all the way down to the depths of himself.

God, why haven't they done this already, he thinks. Why haven't they done this a thousand times before?

He moves his hands over Harold's back with hesitance at first, then confidence, mapping the jut of Harold's shoulder blades, the sloping curves of Harold's spine. Harold sighs into his mouth, and John invites himself in, deepening the kiss, still half-afraid he'll be denied. But there's no need to worry, he learns quickly. Harold makes a desperate, satisfied sound, deep in his throat, and kisses back harder, clutching the nape of John's neck like he's just as scared that John will run away.

Never. Even if he did leave, part of him will always be tethered to Harold—the part of him he thought he lost years ago, the part that Harold found lying in the dirt, covered in blood and gore and death, then somehow wiped clean and slipped back into place. And maybe it's a sign he's been around Harold too much that he's thinking in such a fanciful way, but he doesn't give a damn. Harold saved him. Harold helped him find something good inside himself again. And there is _nothing_ that will change that, _nothing_ that will break the bond formed by that.

Harold is the one who pulls away from the kiss, dragging John back to reality with a loud, long yawn. "Oh, dear," Harold says, slumping against John's chest with a tiny, infectious laugh, and John wraps his arms around him, hugging him close. "I had hoped that if we ever wound up in bed together, it would be in the euphemistic sense, but I'm afraid that won't be the case this morning."

"Probably not," John says, with a chuckle, and he kisses the top of Harold's head. "Maybe after the dragon-slayer's caught a few z's first."

Harold pulls back, giving John a bleary-eyed glare that's endearing as hell. "As I said earlier, dragon-slaying is not—" Shameless, John grins, and cuts Harold off with a brief, chaste kiss to the tip of the nose, then another to Harold's lips. Harold heaves a resigned sigh, and his expression softens, even as he continues, saying, "—part of my skill set. Nor do I think it should be."

"I think it should," John says, and Harold tries to look stern, but fails miserably, a slow smile spreading on his face. Reluctantly, John lets go of him, and takes his place at Harold's side, letting a hand rest on the small of Harold's back. "Never know what's gonna happen, Harold."

"No," Harold agrees, sliding an arm around John's back. "I don't suppose we do, do we?" He yawns again. "Except for me falling asleep very soon."

"Yeah," John says. "That seems like a pretty safe bet. Now, let's get you into a bed."

"Us," Harold says, closing his eyes. "I would very much appreciate it if you'd join me."

John's heart does that weird, half-painful fluttering thing again in his chest. But before he can speak, Harold adds, "I have a _very_ nice bed."

"Well, that settles it," John says, even though it was settled long ago. Lying down next to Harold, holding him close, protecting him in the night, just being near him—it sounds good. "I'm looking forward to it."


End file.
